In 1974 I moved to the Dominican Republic. I lived there for almost four years. The journey began when I graduated from college in 1973. I had a teaching degree but so did a lot of other Baby Boomers. Finding a teaching job was tough. I ended up subbing that first year out of college. What I really wanted to do was teach overseas, but every school I looked at wanted teaching experience which I obviously didn’t have.
One day I received a phone call from the school board chairman of Santiago Christian School in Santiago, Dominican Republic. From that phone visit the board invited me to teach at the school the following school year. I made a commitment for two years. Thus in August of 1974 I found myself on a plane headed first to Miami and then to the Dominican Republic. This is what I had wanted, but the realization that I would not see my family or friends for two years was a bit overwhelming. As I flew off into the unknown, I could barely keep from crying during the flight to Miami.
I spent the night in a hotel in the Miami airport. That in itself was a culture shock. All around the airport I heard people speaking Spanish. The shops were all featuring tropical foods and clothing. I had studied French in high school so it was of little use to me as I wandered the terminal in Miami.
I flew into Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic. Doane Bonney, who had called me, along with his wife Ruth, who was the head mistress of the school, met me at the airport. It was a two hour drive from there to Santiago. As I looked out the window, I began to get a feel for this country that I would call home for the next four years.
I was there under the sponsorship of the missionary board of the Free Methodist Church. They were taking care of me. They were working on setting up an apartment for me, but it wasn’t quite ready so for the first few weeks I lived with the Bonneys. Eventually I had my own place in a duplex with a single older missionary woman next door who we called Aunt Betty. The apartment was on the campus of the Instituto Evangelico, a large school which the Free Methodist Church operated. A walled fence surrounded the campus which took up almost an entire city block. The two gates were locked at night so it felt pretty safe. Two other missionary families lived on the campus as well.
This was not the school I taught at, however. I taught at an English speaking school which was located just outside the town. Santiago Christian School was fairly new at that time. There were two buildings with six classrooms. I was to teach 5th and 6th grades. I’ll share more about my teaching experiences in a later blog post.
Of course one of the challenges I faced was not knowing Spanish. There were times when that created difficulties for me so I knew I needed to learn the language as quickly as possible. I eventually started taking Spanish lessons, but I found them only moderately helpful, and I didn’t put a lot of energy into them. Basically I just learned from sending time with the Dominicans, mostly at church. At first that was painful. I would try to figure out how to say something with my limited vocabulary. It seemed I was using twenty words to say something I could easily say in three words in English. Some of the Dominican young people knew a little English so somehow we managed to make it.
It took me probably a year and a half before I began to feel comfortable using my Spanish. I do remember the moment I realized that I had it down. We had some visiting college students from the US, and I was shepherding them around. Sitting with them in a church service, it dawned on me that unlike them, I understood what was being said. No one had to translate for me. When speaking Spanish, the best complement I ever got was when someone asked me if I was Cuban. It made me think my Spanish was pretty good if they thought I had a Cuban accent.
I also remember the moment I actually translated for someone. It was during a church business meeting, and the American bishop was leading. Mr. Bonney had been translating for him, but he had to step away so the bishop asked me to translate for him. That was a scary moment, but I did OK. I realized at that moment how much of an art form translation is. Word for word translations don’t always work, and knowing how to say something in the best way can be tricky. After that I paid more attention to how people translated for others.
I had no car in the Dominican Republic, but for the most part. that wasn’t an issue. The school picked me up every morning for school and dropped me off after school. I could walk to church, but usually I took a public car called a publico. This is like a cab, but the cars follow a certain route. Cars have a sticker that indicates which route they are driving. When you get in a publico, you are seldom alone. Drivers will try to cram as many people into a car as possible, and these are mostly what we would call compact cars. Here’s what I wrote to my parents about my first solo ride:
Tonight I took my first publico home…I’d taken one with others, but never by myself. By the time I got out, there were two men sitting in the trunk, four in the back seat, and three up front; me, the driver, and a guy with a bottle talking a mile a minute. I was nervous sitting next to that guy, but I survived all right.
One of my more frustrating moments with language also happened in a publico. At that time the going price for a ride was 15 cents. I usually tried to have the exact change with me, but one time I didn’t. I only had a 50 cent piece. After handing it to the driver, he gave me change, a nickle and a dime. I assumed he had accidentally given me the nickle instead of a quarter so I showed it to him so that he would realize his mistake. Instead of giving me a quarter, he seemed to think I was giving him a tip and took the nickle as well saying, “Gracias, gracias.” My 15 cent ride cost me 40 cents, and I was very upset, but I didn’t have the words to clarify it so I just sat there steaming. Now I can laugh.
Here’s what I wrote to my parents about another issue:
I sure have to get used to bugs here. There are beetles, ants, crickets, and mosquitoes all over. The latter are the worst. I’ve had a day when I got seven bites. I usually get at least one a day.
I’ve also had to adjust to lizards. They are all over. When I was at the Wolcotts (another family), they had one on the bedroom wall. No one ever bothers to get rid of them as they eat mosquitoes. The brown ones I can take as they look like ours, but they have bright green ones which I don’t like at all.
On Wed. we had an exciting event at school, our first tarantula. It was on the overhang over the sidewalk. One of the teachers…knocked it down and put it in a jar. It finally died. It was really big and ugly. I guess they had one in the same spot last year. I hope it doesn’t get to be a habit.
Speaking of letters home, mail service was interesting. It took letters about a week to go either way so when I wrote to my parents, it would be two weeks before I could expect to hear from them. Mail went to a box in the post office, but even there it was not always safe. I know of some mail that never reached me.
Probably the most traumatic event of my first year in the Dominican Republic was when someone broke into my house and robbed me. I had been out for the evening and returned home to find that the outside door to my bedroom was open. Looking around I first thought maybe I had accidentally left it open, but then I discovered that four shirts and my sports coat were missing. I was in shock. In the Dominican Republic windows are all louvered, and the bedroom door had wooden louvers. The bottom one was broken so someone got their hand through and unlocked the door. The outside screen door had a lock, but apparently I had left it unlocked.
The next morning I made sure I locked the screen door before I left for school. However, when I got home someone had broken in again taking a pair of shoes and leaving their old ones behind. They also took my radio, two pairs of pants, a pair of shorts, and my travel bag in which I had stashed some travelers checks. I basically had only the clothes I was wearing. We ended up making a police report, but that didn’t do anything. I had to buy new clothes, and the school families rallied around and gave me $135 which was a lot considering my monthly salary was only $350. It was one of those experiences which one never forgets.
Four years in one place is a long time so there is still much to share. Next week I will share about my teaching experiences in the Dominican Republic. Sorry there are so few photos this week. I seem to have lost some of the photos I had. There should be more next week. Until then…